Wish You Well
by altera vita mea
Summary: Romano claimed to hate Spain, yet if anything happened to him the Italian was right there to help. Why? Because he honestly had no idea what he'd do without Spain.


**_I've been attempting to write this story for months, and I've finally gotten around to finishing it. I hope you enjoy it._**

 ** _altera vita mea_**

* * *

 _Wish You Well_

Part I- 1588

Romano was far from patient- it didn't take a genius to figure that one out. Even waiting for small things, like for his caretaker Spain to get his lazy ass out of bed in the morning to feed him breakfast was enough to piss him off. But more recently the jerk had had the nerve to up and leave him for his shiny, rich new colonies in the West. Romano had always suspected that the older man disliked him, that he only stuck around for his grandfather's inheritance and as soon as he got what he was after he'd be gone. He never could shake the thought that Spain had at one point tried to trade him for his stupid, perfect little brother, but leaving a child all alone for months at a time was just irresponsible.

At first, Romano had been delighted that the jerk bastard was leaving him in peace and quiet, without the pains of having to look at his stupid face, or to listen to his retarded accent as he asked him to do chores, or to feel those disgustingly warm arms that insisted on wrapping themselves around him when he wanted to be left alone. But he had quickly found himself where he was now, tired of the freedom he got in the large house- it meant he had to cook his own food, clean up after himself, stumble around empty rooms with no one to talk to except for his own loud voice; it was exhausting after a while. He was bored out of his young mind, tomatoes were hard to harvest by oneself, and he mostly sat around worried that the creep France, or Turkey, or heaven forbid England would try to snatch up the vulnerable Italian nation in Spain's absence.

Romano shook the terrifying thoughts out of his head as his small arms clutched his basket of tomatoes against his chest, ducking out of the way of the busy sailors present at the dock that day. Some of the men nodded to the child who always waited for someone who never seemed to arrive, but most of them ignored him and muttered Spanish curses under their breath, words that were picked up on and were tucked away to be used in an already colorful vocabulary.

Romano wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but he was worried about that gentle idiot who had taken him away from the bastards who could care less about him, the one who had taken him under his wing and taught him to dance, who had brought him tomatoes from the New World. He was worried, because that idiot had changed.

Ever since Spain started exploring and gaining more and more power, he had grown more irritable, he seemed to always be fighting with someone, and Romano had heard some rumors that made him shudder to his very core. Spain had never, ever raised a hand against him, he rarely even raised his voice, but some of the whispered tales he had heard from passing merchants made the small nation wonder if people like France were really the ones he should be afraid of. He had never heard horror stories of other countries torturing those with different religious beliefs. He wasn't stupid, he knew there were reasons why Spain was currently the most powerful country in Europe, he knew the others took his caretaker's reaction into consideration when making decisions because they were afraid of making him angry. He knew Netherlands refused to let Belgium visit often because of the Inquisition, and he knew that the new colonies were facing a man so unlike the one Romano lived with.

Just five months ago, the last time he had seen Spain, he had grabbed his battle axe and had stormed off with what he'd called his unstoppable Armada, swearing that the thick eyebrowed heathen bastard would soon meet his death at the bottom of the ocean. His little henchman had seen him angry before, but he had never before bore witness to the murderous look in the normally sparkling green eyes that day. It had been absolutely nerve wracking, but at the same time Romano knew he could never really be truly of Spain himself.

He was confident that the bastard would never hurt him, not intentionally, and he had learned to simply bury himself in the depths of the tomato fields when the man was in a disagreeable mood, knowing full and well that the moment he'd calmed down he'd come crawling through the dirt crying about, "Scaring my little Roma." He'd sit around and mope and wallow in self pity until Romano would come out, call him a bastard, and begrudgingly forgive him. Then he was all smiles and hugs and really good food. Spain was such an idiot, but Romano had come to….not love him, but appreciate him….He wouldn't keep him around for long anyway….

The small Italian sat down on his usual rock and trained his eyes to the never ending sea, reaching into his basket to grab a tomato to munch on as he waited for the familiar ships to come into sight with the shouts of victory. He had lived the scenario day after day. He could already imagine seeing the Armada slowly appear, it would begin as tiny dots littering the horizon, slowly growing nearer and bigger and grander. The sailors and the merchants and the villagers and the nobles and the women and the children would soon crowd around the docks, buzzing with excitement. Ships would be pointed out, men recognized, messages shouted. Romano would stand up on his rock, nearly slipping as he shielded his eyes from the intense glare of the sun, scanning the ships eagerly. The men would then run or jump off the ship and embraced their family, happily recounting their triumph. And then, Spain would come into view, smiling fondly at being back in his home country, eyes bright and shining as they landed on his henchman. "Romano!" He would exclaim, hugging him tightly. "It's so good to see you again! I've missed you! Are you getting taller? I hope you've done a little cleaning while I was away."

Romano would retort with a, "Bastard! Why they hell would I clean willingly, huh? What do you think I am, a damn slave?" And then he would offer Spain his last tomato, because...well...who knew when the last time he had one was?

But today, just like every other day, came and went without a Spanish nation coming home, and the secretly faithful little henchman turned his back on the ocean once the sun had gone down and his supply of food ran out. There were tears in his eyes, but he didn't dare wipe them away; that would have meant that he acknowledged their existence. He wasn't sad, he was angry dammit! If Spain had just stayed put, none of this would have happened. England and his favorite human Drake wouldn't have riches to plunder if the Country of Passion had simply stayed here with Romano. No one would hate him if he would mind his own damn business and stop killing people who disagreed with him. Why couldn't he see just how easy the whole thing was? Was he that stupid?

The little nation rolled into his bed, ignoring the mess in his room. He just wanted to sleep. Maybe then he could forget about that stupid jerk-bastard. Of course it wasn't as simple as that, it wasn't possible to suddenly stop thinking about someone he was concerned for, Romano knew that. Instead of falling into a deep sleep he found himself awkwardly zoning out, only to awake with a start after a frightening dream. Spain was being killed by England. France was kidnapping Romano. All he could seem to do was sit there and watch as the only person who had ever seemed to care about him died right before his eyes.

Romano was now trembling, wiping damp pieces of hair away from his sweaty forehead, willing his panicking heart to steady its beating. He took a shaky breath and slowly sat up, clutching at his twisted sheets, blankets that Spain hadn't been around to air out.

Suddenly, he heard the front door open gently, and he froze in terror. Who the hell would be sneaking into the large house in the dead of night? Spain didn't own any servants, his boss wouldn't show up at such an hour, Belgium would always write before she visited, and none of the other nations cared enough to come see him. Unless… unless it was to steal him away while Spain was gone, to claim territory for themselves or to lash out at their enemy.

Swallowing, Romano gently slipped out of bed and felt around his cluttered room until he was able to locate that old rusty sword leaning against the wall. The practically useless weapon shook in his arms, and he was having trouble seeing in the dark, but the Italian was not about to let himself get stolen so easily. He never let anyone have anything without kicking and screaming and swearing. He slowly made it out of his room and crept down the hall, occasionally bumping into things and causing them to fall, hoping the noise would scare off whoever was attacking rather than draw them closer.

But there was never the sound of quiet footsteps approaching, or any indication that the intruder was still prowling around. Maybe they're gone. Romano's breathing was becoming more even as he rounded the corner, pointing the sword at the door just in case.

He dropped it a second after.

There in the doorway, leaning against the wood and grasping at a wound at his side, stood Spain. His breathing was shallow, his clothes were torn and there seemed to be so much blood... When the weapon clanged against the ground he looked up weakly, his green eyes dull with pain. "Roma…" Spain attempted to take a step, but his legs gave out and left him to crumble to the floor. Romano yelped quietly at the sight and found himself dashing forward to try to help him up. "We lost Roma…" The Spaniard muttered tiredly.

"Of course you lost, you bastard. That's what happens when you're a stupid idiota." Even though his words sounded harsh, Romano's hands were still shaking as he hesitantly slid his arms around the man's neck and let out a soft sob.

Spain returned the embrace as well as he was able. "I know Romano… I'm sorry…" There was something about that apology that interested the Italian. It seemed to mean much more than a sorry for losing to England, or even a sorry for being a stupid bastard. It was an apology for not being there, for leaving him alone. Spain's accent was thick, his eyelids were closing, the grip on his henchman was loosening. He was unconscious.

Romano wasted no time after that. He dashed around the large house opening curtains and lighting candles, drawing water and locating bandages, tripping and cursing along the way. Then he had to half-carry, mostly-drag the larger, fatter man across the hall until he reached Spain's bedroom, and somehow managed to lift him onto the bed so he could tend to his injuries. He was glad that he had seen Belgium do this sort of thing enough times to get the idea, and he was happy that he was helpful for once in his life.

The little Italian worked until dawn tending to his caretaker, carefully cleaning his wounds, bandaging them so they were not too tight, but tight enough, finding new clothes, making sure he didn't get a fever, and doing whatever else he needed to do. He all but refused to leave Spain's side unless it was to aid in his recovery somehow. He was hungry, but he didn't get up to get food; he was tired, but he didn't dare fall asleep for fear that while he was resting his idiot "boss" would wake up in a worse condition. Romano was content to sit up until Spain was better, checking his temperature regularly, double checking for a pulse, making sure there was the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Because Romano honestly had no idea what he would do without him.

Part II- 1936-1939

Romano was panicking, and that was something no one wanted to deal with, for it meant even more cursing and shouting and running around like a chicken without a head. When the Southern Italian freaked out, no one could get him to see reason: he didn't even see reason when he was in a stable emotional state.

"Calm down," Germany muttered as he fixed his uniform. Wrong choice of words, apparently.

"Calm down?!" He sputtered, throwing his arms into the air. "Don't fucking tell me to calm down, Potato Bastard!" All hell seemed to be breaking loose; everyone was still recovering from the first World War, the Potato Bastard's new boss would make sure another succeeded it, Italy was having problems of its own and as Germany's ally they'd end up fighting in this new war, but the worst of it, the cherry on top of the cake, was the fact that Spain was going through a civil war. Wars period were hard on a nation. If someone lost in battle too many times it could severely affect their health. They might not even make it.

Since Romano split his country with his brother, he had never experienced a real civil war, but according to the loud obnoxious America and several others, it was the worst kind. "It's like you can't even control anything anymore," he had said. "The people are totally out of hand, fighting each other, killing their metaphorical brothers. It feels like you're being torn apart from the inside, like your body is fighting itself. You're not even sure if you'll end up in one piece."

The fact that Spain was going through that made Romano's blood run cold. "We have to fucking do something!" He all but screeched. "Why the hell are we sitting on our asses? He could be dying!"

Italy bobbed his head in agreement. "Ve~! We have to help Big Brother Spain! What can we do, Germany?"

He truly hated Germany with every fiber of his being, he knew his motives were less than pure, but damn was Romano glad the other nation had arrived on the battle scene so quickly. He would never admit it to anyone for as long as he lived, but he secretly felt as though he owed that Macho Potato, for even though he was only there for his own military gain, he was still helping save Spain's life. Romano didn't care so much about many people, and that made the stakes on this war so much higher.

With that in mind the Italian begrudgingly followed orders, even if it led him though fights and into chaos. Even if he had gotten shot in the ass and had to sit out several days after. Even if they weren't able to get to Madrid in 1936 like Germany had said they would, while Romano had to scan the city from the dangerous outskirts and hide the tears threatening to fall down his face, because it was embarrassing how violently the situation frightened him. He did this because it was for Spain, because he had relied on the gentle bastard so long and his normally suppressed conscious would simply destroy him with guilt if Spain died. Also, where else would he go to complain and eat tomatoes when his brother was being annoying?

"Ve, fratello?"

Romano stiffened and roughly wiped his face, swearing under his breath. Why did everyone have to catch him at his most vulnerable moments?! "W-what the hell do you want?" He demanded, growling slightly at the catch in his voice.

Italy wandered closer and rested his head on his brother's shoulder, barely flinching when the other angrily shook him off. "How are you?" he asked softly.

Romano shrugged. "What the fuck does that mean bastard? I'm fine!"

Italy smiled a little, even as small tears pricked the corners of his eyes. "I know you are. You've always been a little more emotionally strong compared to me. Everything is so scary now, isn't it? Our boss, Germany's new boss, all these wars that we somehow end up in the middle of… I hope we win this one: I want Big Brother Spain to be okay."

"Of course he will!" Romano scoffed, trying to convince himself more than his brother. He took a deep breath as he gazed off in the direction of Madrid, where he knew Spain was lying miserably while his country fell apart. "Before you know it, the bastard will be back to his idiotic, tomato-obsessed self, playing guitar when he's supposed to be working and bothering me when I told him to go to hell."

"Italy! Romano!" Germany called from the edge of camp. "We're packing up and moving out now! Hurry up!"

"Alright Germany! Wait for me!" Italy shouted back, running to where the Potato's voice came from.

Romano took one last lingering glance at Madrid, his frown deepening. "I'll be back when I can, stupid bastard," he whispered. "Until then you'd better do whatever the fuck those doctors tell you, keep your big ass in bed, and don't die. If you do, I won't forgive you, bastard."

{…}

"Romano!" Germany shouted somewhere behind him. Ugh, he was so controlling, how did Veneziano stand to be around him all the damn time?! "Where are you going?! I told you to stay with the troops! We haven't taken over the city yet!"

Gunshots drowned out his annoying voice and caused the Italian to lose his footing for half a second, stumbling over his own feet before he ducked behind a building. Scowling, he murmured, "fuck you" over his shoulder and began to run through the streets of Madrid. They were finally going to win this stupid war- once they defeated the Republican forces in the capital city it would be a matter of days before they surrendered, that was certain. Romano wasn't wasting another second, he had spent nearly three war-torn years losing his shit because of Spain, and now he was determined to find the bastard and make sure he was okay. Maybe if he was well enough he'd punch him as a punishment for making him panic like that.

"Halt!" Some bastard soldier shouted at him in Spanish. "I'll shoot!" Romano scoffed defiantly and quickened his pace. _I am so fucking done with being told what to do!_ He thought angrily. _Veneziano can do all the shit for his Potato Bastard's new World War!_ He flipped off the soldier guarding Spain's house as he ran inside, not even slowing down when the stupid human panicked and pulled his trigger hastily.

Romano swore at the pang of pain that shot through his left arm and turned to glare at the soldier. "Piss off you jerk! Don't you fucking know who I am? I'm South Italy!" The human looked too shocked to respond, so the Nation turned back around and dashed off to his destination.

"SPAIN YOU BASTARD!" He shouted, bursting open the bedroom door. His breaths came out in shallow pants; damn he was out of shape.

"R-Romano?"

Hearing that familiar, usually cheerful voice sound so weak caused him to jerk his head up in concern. Spain looked so small and fragile as he lay in bed, his tanned skin significantly paler. When was the last time he had seen the idiot look so sick? Not since the bastard's conquistador days, when he would come home beat up by England all the fucking time.

"Spain...dammit." Romano made his way to the bed and carefully sat down on the edge. "You idiot."

Spain attempted to smile, but groaned in pain instead. "Lo siento…"

"Why the fuck are you apologizing, you dipshit?" The Italian hissed. "Stop it; you look like hell. Do you have a fever?" Pushing back sweaty clumps of brown hair, he pressed the back of his palm to the Spaniard's forehead. "Damn, you're burning up! Don't they have a doctor taking care of you, or is it just the retarded soldier guarding your house and failing?"

Romano spotted a bowl and a washcloth at the bedside table and reached for them while Spain shook his head slightly. "There was...but he had to leave when the f-fighting got so close to the city. There were other people he had to care for, people who would d-die without him. He couldn't do much for me any-" His words were suddenly cut off by a violent coughing fit that had him jolt into an upright position, struggling to catch his breath. Romano cringed when he noticed the sleeve he was coughing into was red with blood.

"How long has that shit been happening?" He demanded when the other could finally breathe, grabbing the glass of water that had been next to the bowl and helping it to Spain's lips. The other drank a generous amount, his green eyes shining with a fond gratification. "Gracias Roma. It's been like this s-since the fighting started," he murmured after he finished drinking.

"Dammit!" Romano cursed as he banged the empty glass onto the table and stood up, walking over to Spain's dresser in search of a clean shirt. "I knew I should have gotten here sooner! I know I probably wouldn't have been much help, but it sure as hell would have been better than the shit the humans were doing for you!"

"R-Roma?"

The Italian jerked a shirt out of the drawer and glared at him. "What bastard?"

"Your arm is bleeding! Are you okay?"

Romano glanced down at his left arm with disinterest, noticing that a bit of blood had soaked through to his military jacket. "Honestly Spain," he retorted with an eye roll. "It's fine- doesn't even hurt. Now stop worrying about me, stronzo!"

Spain pursed his lips in silence for half a second, watching as Romano sat back on the bed. "That's quite a bit of blood..."

"Shut up! I told you I don't even feel it! It's not like it'll kill me!" The other snapped, gripping the edge of the dingy old shirt Spain was wearing and lifting it over his head. Romano frowned softly at the sight: the older country had lost a lot of weight throughout the past couple years, and the Italian could count a few new scars littering his upper body. "I should have fucking gotten here sooner," he muttered again, biting his lip as he helped him into the clean shirt.

Spain smiled at him weakly. "No, don't blame yourself Roma. These past years have been so hard, the world is changing. There's been too much bloodshed- but I'm glad it's almost over. I'm glad you're here now."

Romano sighed slightly and helped the Spaniard lie back down, running his fingers through the other's hair wistfully. "Whatever idiota. Just get better and don't fucking die, capisce?"

Spain nodded. "I wasn't planning on it." The Italian Nation nodded back. "Good."

"Roma?"

"Dio, what could you possibly want to say now?"

Spain looked at his arm in concern. "Could you at least wrap your arm, mi querido?"

No Romano was not blushing, and he obviously wasn't shrugging out of his jacket, and it clearly had absolutely nothing to do with the endearing- no sickening name he had been called. He just wanted Spain to shut up and rest, because the idiot wasn't going to stop complaining until he obeyed. Romano huffed and rolled up his sleeve, using the wrappings placed at the bedside to give himself a half-assed bandage. "Happy now?" He demanded.

Spain nodded slightly. "A little bit. Gracias."

Romano rolled his eyes and finally set to work bringing down his fever, pressing the cool wet washcloth against his forehead. His former caretaker tried to smile again, but ended up coughing- fortunately not nearly as bad as the previous fit. "Idiot. Stop trying to smile!"

"I can't help it!" Spain whined softly as he gently pushed his cheek against the hand holding the washcloth. "I love it when Roma takes care of Boss! It's so cute!"

Romano puffed out his cheeks, annoyed at the Spaniard's comment as well as his unexpected blush. "Well...if I didn't...I wouldn't get tomatoes...shit stain." Even so, when Spain was finally able to drift off into a sleep more peaceful than he had had since the war started, Romano felt a small smile creep onto his face.

{...}

Four days later, April 1, was when the war was finally over...in Spain at least. Unfortunately for Romano, his work was far from over thanks to his boss and Germany's boss. But he was willing to put that to the side for the moment.

"Idiot! Don't you have anything nicer to wear? You're going to meet your new fucking boss dammit!"

Spain made a face as he attempted to button his shirt. "I'm kind of broke at the moment Roma. I don't really have anything else..."

The younger nation rolled his eyes. "Then fucking do us all a favor and at least try to look presentable," he grumbled as he took a step closer to Spain, lightly slapping his hands out of the way so he could continue buttoning the shirt himself. Had the man never dressed himself before? The buttons weren't even lined up with the right buttonhole. Romano blushed from under his hair, he knew the other was watching him, and that made his hands tremble slightly. He wasn't exactly sure why; he had been this close to Spain before, usually when he was sick or dressed himself with the skill of a toddler, but he had never felt so nervous about it.

"H-how are you feeling, bastard?"

Spain sighed gently and rested his chin on the top of Romano's head and wrapped his arms around the younger's torso, ignoring the angry shouts of protest. "It will be a while until I actually feel good," he murmured. "But it's getting better. I can get out of bed and talk without coughing now!"

"Yeah, that's great," he mumbled quietly, trying hard not to notice the smell of grass, tomatoes, and spices that came from the other, or to focus on the fact that if his hands hadn't been in the way his chest would be pressed right up against the Spaniard's. It wasn't a comforting thought, he decided, ignoring the wild beating of his heart.

"Lovino?"

Romano shivered slightly. He was hardly ever called by his human name, it was just so i-intimate. Yet when Spain used it... it was impossible to get angry, it sounded so beautiful coming from his lips. "W-what Spain?"

A warm hand cupped his chin and tilted his face up, forcing him to look into two loving pools of green. "Call me Antonio," he whispered.

Romano swallowed thickly, what was wrong with him? Why wasn't he flipping out and punching the bastard in the face. Why was his face so red he could feel it burning? Why was he opening his mouth and stuttering, "O-okay...Antonio…"

Spain, no Antonio smiled his perfect smile and ran a finger alongside his jaw, sending a tingling sensation through his body. "Be careful Lovi," he said gently. "In this new war, stay safe. I don't know what I would do with myself if something happened to mi amor."

Romano's eyes widened. "You mean you-"

"Sí, I love you!" Antonio giggled, pressing his lips to the other's forehead.

"Bastard! I swear if this is some fucked up April Fool's joke-"

Spain looked appalled by the very thought, releasing a gasp as his smile faltered. "No, I'm serious!" He said sincerely. "I fell in love with you shortly after you gained independance, and it made me sad because you were no longer living with me and I didn't have enough money to come see you. But you never left me alone for long, and you have a habit of showing up when I need you, even if you claim you don't care. But I know you do, and I love that about you. I love everything about you: your eyes, your blush, your smile, and-"

"Okay, I get it, crazy obsessive bastard!" Romano huffed with a scarlet face, slowly disentangling his arms so he could wrap them around his neck. "You're so lucky I love you too, or you'd still be lying in that damned bed!"

Antonio nodded. "I know. Thank you mi querido. That's why I want you to be safe out there. I don't want to see you sick like that, okay?"

Romano nodded back. "Sure."

"Good." Spain leaned forward and brushed their lips together in a soft kiss. "For luck!" He sang out.

The Italian nation rolled his eyes, a small smile sneaking onto his face. "Antonio, you're an idiot," he stated. "I'm going into fucking World War II, I'll need more luck than that bastard. Now kiss me like you mean it!"


End file.
